


World Changing Decisions, Life Changing News

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the time since Sherlock's death, John has been making a true difference in the world with Doctors Without Borders. When Mycroft summons him back to London, he's confused at first, until it's revealed that Sherlock is alive and well. John must grapple with the thoughts and feelings he has about the whole situation and make a decision about whether he wants to continue with his new life or attempt to go back to his old one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt answered for the sherlockmas Afterglow Fest, which is "John-centric post-Reichenbach where John leaves London behind and joins up with Doctors Without Borders. Someplace where he can do a LOT of good putting his skills as an ex-soldier, a doctor AND someone who's followed Sherlock around for a while to good use."

There was no point in staying in London, once Sherlock wasn’t there. John needed to find something new to get him through the day, because the flat held nothing but painful memories now. Every memento, from the skull on the mantle to the bullet riddled smiley face on the wall to the Cluedo game with the dagger through it, simply brought back memories that were too painful for John to think about. It was Sarah who thought of a potential solution. John had a background that few doctors did: he was a doctor, a former soldier and had spent years with the most exasperating man in London. Why not try and join Doctors Without Borders? She had said she would be sorry to see him go, but it might be a better fit for him than staying in London and wasting away. He had never considered that, figuring he had seen enough of war-torn countries in his stint in Afghanistan to last a lifetime. But he found another doctor, a former colleague of Molly’s, who had done it, and had a talk with her. She said the experience was life-changing, and that you did real good by doing it. He left her after three hours of conversation, seriously considering it.

It took a month, but he decided he would go for it. His friends threw him a party at the pub nearby his home. Sarah, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson…even Mycroft had shown up briefly, saying that if he ever needed anything to keep in touch. After all, a doctor with a member of the British government on speed dial could come in handy.

He had told the organization to send him anywhere except the Middle East. That was a demon he still wasn’t ready to face; his time with Sherlock had been a patch to the problems he had upon his return, and the wounds still had not completely healed. It was still too fresh, and going back there would do more harm than good. He wouldn’t be able to be the best doctor he could be if he was having flashbacks and night sweats and trembling hands. So he got sent to Africa, and he settled in.

The work he did was amazing. He felt fulfilled there, more whole than he had been with Sherlock, or even before Sherlock, before the war. The villagers he interacted with were so appreciative and so humble. He found he liked working with the children the best. The way their faces would light up when they saw him filled the gaping hole in his soul nicely. This was a good life to lead, the best thing he could have done. He was making a real difference here, changing people’s lives who would otherwise have no hope. He felt that he should have done this long ago.

It wasn’t without trouble; there was still wars going on in some of the places he went to, and there were times he had to pick up a gun instead of a stethoscope or scalpel. And many of the people he helped were wary of him, at least at first. A few people were outright distrustful. At every village he would have to work hard to gain their trust, and each time he succeeded he felt that personally he was making the world a better place.

It didn’t hurt to go back to the flat now. When he would return to London he would regale his friends with stories and watch the smiles on their faces when he told of the children and the elderly he had helped, the lives he had saved, the concrete proof that he was making a difference in the world. He could look at the oddities and mementos that had been moved into his room and not feel sad. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would have approved of this new life, but he felt sure that if Sherlock had still been alive he would have at least been happy for his friend now that he had found his calling.

He had been doing it for three years, five months and seventeen days by the time his world flipped upside down again. He had been in Somalia when he got a call from Mycroft, telling him to come home. There had been a few things he had to do first, patients to see and good-byes to make, but finally he was on a flight back to London. The entire time he wondered why on Earth he was being called back. Had someone died? That had to be the only reason, but surely Mycroft would have told him if that was the case. He couldn’t understand the urgent summons home.

He got into a cab as soon as he got out of the airport and headed to Mycroft’s home, as had been Mycroft’s instructions. He got to the door and knocked. Anthea answered it within moments. “Hello, John. Mycroft and his guest are expecting you.”

“Guest?” he asked her as he stepped inside.

She nodded. “He didn’t call you back for bad news. But…it will be a shock. So steel yourself.” She took his duffel bag from him and set it down in the foyer. “Follow me.”

John followed her down a hallway. He had never been to Mycroft’s home before, and under normal circumstances he would be slightly awed by the size and the opulence, but right now he was more confused than anything else. Anthea opened the door to another room and John zeroed in on Mycroft, who was standing by the fireplace, warming himself by the roaring fire. It took him a moment to see the person on the other side. It _couldn’t_ be, he thought to himself as his jaw dropped. “Sherlock,” he said quietly.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock replied. He looked different. He looked more weary, much thinner than before, more haggard. He looked a mess.

“What kind of sick joke is this, Mycroft?” John said, turning towards Mycroft. He couldn’t look at Sherlock. It just…it shouldn’t be happening. Sherlock was _dead_. John had been to the funeral, visited the grave almost every day before he’d left. This was not possible.

“It’s no joke. My brother had to fake his death to keep all of you safe. He’s only just been able to return.” Mycroft turned to look at John. “The others have already been informed. I felt it best if you saw for yourself instead of hearing about it from me.”

John looked at Mycroft, then moved into the room. “I should punch you. The both of you. It’s been three years of lies.”

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said, moving towards Mycroft so John would have to look at him. “Before Moriarty killed himself on that roof, he told me you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all be killed if I didn’t die. I had to die that day in order for you to be safe.”

“But I saw you! I saw the blood! I couldn’t feel a pulse!” John was beginning to get angry now. “You were _dead_!”

“A very clever illusion, pulled off with help from Ms. Hooper and myself,” Mycroft said.

“So Molly knew,” John said with disgust. “All these years, and she knew, but you couldn’t tell me?”

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock said, coming over towards him. He hesitantly put a hand on John’s shoulder but John angrily shrugged it off. “I know I cannot make up for the deception, but I would like to try.”

“No. No, I don’t think I can forgive this. I don’t think I can forget,” John said, shaking his head. “I’m making a real difference in the world now. I’m doing something good with my life.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft’s been telling me.”

“Then you’ll know why I won’t be staying in London,” John said. “I’m going to go back to Africa, as soon as I get all my belongings out of the flat and into a new residence.”

“John—“ Sherlock said.

John held up a hand. “Don’t. If you ever want any chance of reconciling with me, leave me alone now. I…I can’t deal with this right now.” He turned then and went back to the door that Anthea was standing by, the one he had entered the room from. “I need to go get my things.”

Anthea looked at Mycroft, who nodded, and then she opened the door. They stepped back outside, John walking quickly. Anthea put a hand on his shoulder and he stopped. He could tell she felt him trembling with repressed anger. “John. He did it for the right reasons.”

“I know. And one day I might be willing to forgive him. But today is not that day.” He took a deep breath. “Will he be going back to the flat?”

Anthea nodded. “That had been the plan.”

“Then see if they’ll give me a week first to move out. If I see Sherlock right now I may cause him bodily harm.”

“Very well,” Anthea said with a nod. “I’m sure Mycroft can let him stay here.” They continued to walk until they got to the front doors, and John picked up his bag. “John?”

“Yes?” he asked, turning to look at her as he put his hand on the knob.

“He missed you terribly,” she said quietly. “And he worried about you.”

“That’s good to know,” he said with a nod. “But it’s not enough.” And with that he opened the door and walked out into the night, glad to leave Mycroft’s home behind him, and knowing he was going to have a hard time wrestling with the thoughts and feelings whirring through him. Tonight was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

It took John three days to find a new flat and another two to move out. He left all the things he had that had belonged to Sherlock behind, because they weren’t his and right now the fewer reminders he had of the man the better. His phone had been ringing nearly every two hours with calls from his friends but he ignored them all. If they had all left voicemails he was sure his limit was reached by now. But right now he needed time to think, time to make plans, and he wanted peace and quiet while he did it.

He would admit he was relieved Sherlock was alive. Not happy, not yet, but that was because he was still so very angry at him. What he _wanted_ to do was hop on a plane back to Africa and get back to work, but if he had learned one thing was that there was a difference between running away from something and running towards something. Doctors Without Borders had been running to something; if he went back now he would still be doing good work but he would also be a coward who was running away from so many things, and he didn’t want to be that man ever again.

He hesitated about making a blog post about all this. Even with the shift away from cases and towards the work he was doing he still had followers, still had good friendships he had developed with people he would most likely never meet face to face. Part of him wanted their opinions on this, since he was sure right now all his London friends except Molly were rather shell-shocked themselves. But there was a larger part of him that new if he broached it to others the influence might cause him to do something he would regret later.

He was angry at Sherlock, angry at Mycroft, and angry at Molly as well. But the anger wasn’t at the level of hate. He understood Sherlock had done it for an important reason. Just knowing that he could have been dead three and a half years ago if he hadn’t jumped off that roof was enough to keep the anger from spilling over into abject hatred. But the anger was there, and it was substantial. It would take some time to work through it.

He wanted to talk to someone. Molly was out, obviously, and Mrs. Hudson had seemed in a state of shock when he’d left. He hesitated calling Lestrade, mostly because in the three years since Sherlock faked his death he had begun a relationship with Molly and that was probably a prickly subject right now. But that was also a point in favor of calling him: if anyone else might feel personally betrayed it would be him.

He checked his voicemails before he called. He had been right; his message box was full. Most of the messages were from his friends who had been involved with Sherlock, though a few had involved colleagues in Doctors Without Borders who wanted to know if everything was okay. He made note of those calls and decided to call them after he talked to Lestrade. He called Lestrade up and left a voicemail when it came up that it might be a good idea if they met for coffee. Then he began returning the calls to his colleagues.

It was maybe forty minutes later that there was a knock on his door. The only person who knew his new address was Mrs. Hudson, because he had had things he needed sent over from 221 Baker St and she had assured him she would take care of it. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, but he was not surprised when he saw Lestrade standing there. He was a Yarder; finding John’s new address would have been quite simple. “Figured you might want more than a cup of coffee,” Lestrade said, holding up a bottle of whiskey.

“Bloody hell, you look awful,” John said, his eyes slightly wide as he moved out of the way.

“Had a row with Molly over all of this. I moved out a week ago. We’re giving each other time to cool down, I suppose.” Lestrade came in. “I’ve been eating up my vacation days over this because right now Scotland Yard is the last place I want to be.”

“Understandable,” John said with a nod. “Everyone’s got to be talking about it.”

He nodded. “Made it one day there after the news broke. I was very close to doing something drastic to Donovan because she would not stop talking about it, and all I wanted to do was let the whole thing die down.”

John went to the box with his glasses in it. He was still unpacking and at the moment was only pulling out the things he needed. Actually unpacking would make the severing of this particular tie to Sherlock seem more real and much more permanent, and he didn’t want that yet, not completely. He pulled out two glasses as Lestrade opened the bottle of whiskey. John held out the glasses to him and Lestrade poured out two hefty measures, then set the bottle down and took one of the glasses. “I’d make a toast but it wouldn’t be to anything pleasant,” John said.

“Oh, I have a list of things I’d like to toast to, but I’d just get more depressed,” Lestrade said, taking a drink of his alcohol. John did the same after a moment. “If I thought my life was hell after he died, with the accusations and the urgings to retire early, it’s only going to get worse now.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, looking at his friend. “And then you have this whole mess with Molly.”

Lestrade nodded. “Never expected it. I mean, I knew she fancied him. Couldn’t _not_ see it when she and I were together around Sherlock. And I knew he had seen her that day. But it still hurt that the entire time we’ve been together, the entire time I poured everything out to her, she was keeping this huge secret.” He took another drink. “I’m less angry than I was before. Stopped drinking as much yesterday because I needed to think more clearly.”

“And what did you decide?”

“A few things. I’ll probably get around to sitting down and talking to Molly soon, see if we can talk about this without having another fight. If we can, I’m willing to forgive and move on from there. I love her too much to lose her over this.” He paused. “And as soon as I see Sherlock or his brother again I’m punching them in the face.”

John smiled a bit at that. “I had the same thought when I saw them a few days ago.”

“So you’ve actually seen Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

John nodded. “You haven’t?”

“No,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “His brother stopped by my office and told me. Molly confirmed it later that evening. The only reason the rest of the Yard knows is Mycroft presented proof that the allegations against Sherlock were false to my superiors right after he informed them that Sherlock was still alive. No one can keep their mouths shut there if they have good gossip.”

John took another sip of his drink. “Did you get to see the proof?”

Lestrade nodded. “It was shown to me. Not that I needed it. Everyone else may have doubted him, but I never did.”

“I never doubted it, either,” John said. “Did you know the first month after he died I kept praying it was all a hoax, that he wasn’t really dead?”

“I didn’t know that,” Lestrade said before having more of his drink. “Looks like your prayers came true. You’re lucky.”

“Yeah.” John finished his drink, then picked up the bottle and poured himself more. “He didn’t say anything about wanting to go back to his old life. Not that I would have stayed long enough to ask.”

“I don’t know if anyone at Scotland Yard would let him consult again, not with the taint,” Lestrade said before he finished his drink. “I might, but he would need to be very convincing.”

“He can be convincing,” John said with the ghost of a smile.

Lestrade poured himself another drink. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” John said with a slight shrug. “I like my life now. I mean, I know I helped people when I worked cases with Sherlock, but my life now is more fulfilling. I don’t know if I want to leave it. At the same time, though…”

“You want the old times back,” Lestrade said with a knowing look.

“Yeah, a bit. I miss doing what we did. Sometimes I’d lie awake at night and think about it all, and I’d realize that even though I enjoyed my new work I still missed my old life.” John took another drink. “If he asked I don’t know if I’d have the strength to say no, once I stop being so angry.”

“Well, at least you’ll have some time,” Lestrade said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I don’t think Sherlock will jump right back into his old life. For all we know, he won’t want to. It’s been nearly three and a half years. None of us know yet how much he’s changed.”

“There is that,” John said with a nod. “Guess we just have to wait and see.”

“Guess we will, mate.”


	3. Chapter 3

John had returned at the beginning of August, and as the month wore on he found himself still weighing and debating what he wanted, how he wanted to handle the news. He and Lestrade spent more time with each other, and on one of the visits he even spoke to Molly briefly. The anger was fading more rapidly now, and he was much less angry at Molly than he had thought he would be when they spoke. Personally he was just happy she and Lestrade had made amends. She had been the best thing to happen to him after his divorce and it had been hard to see what their fight had done to him.

He had been home for six weeks when he finally saw Sherlock again. He had been staring at the boxes stacked in his living room, debating whether to start unpacking them or not, when there was a knock at the door. He had plans to meet with Lestrade later in the evening so it couldn’t be him, and when he opened the door and saw Sherlock was there he wasn’t all that surprised. If it had been easy for Lestrade to find him it would have been even easier for Sherlock. “Hello,” John said quietly.

“I thought we could talk,” Sherlock said. He still looked too thin to John, though not nearly as haggard, and now that they were in daylight and not a darkened study he could see Sherlock had changed his hair color to a brownish color and cut it shorter.

“Come in,” John said, moving out of the way. Sherlock entered, and John shut the door behind him. “You don’t seem to have a black eye from when Greg punched you.”

“It’s already healed,” Sherlock said, looking around. “It was quite a shiner. I didn’t know he could punch so hard. Mycroft’s cut on his cheek is still healing.”

“Good for Greg,” John murmured. He leaned against the door and looked at Sherlock, crossing his arms. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to apologize, first,” Sherlock said, turning to look at him. “And to explain.”

“All right.”

“I’m sorry I had to deceive you. Moriarty killed himself on that roof before I could get him to safety. I had recorded our entire conversation on my phone, though, before I called you. Tossed my phone to the side before I jumped and told Mycroft about it after I was taken to the morgue. Even though Moriarty was dead, it was insurance in case something happened.”

“I’m assuming that’s the proof that was given to Greg’s superiors?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, along with all the details I had picked up as I dismantled his criminal network. Arrests are still being made, and things are settling down. That was why it was deemed safe for me to return.”

“Thank you for that, I suppose.”

“Mycroft has told me all about what you’ve been doing. I actually observed you at a village in Kenya a year or so back.”

John looked surprised. “How?”

“You’d be surprised what I can do to blend in,” he said. “You seemed to be good, so I worried less. I had seen it with my own eyes instead of just relying on Mycroft’s reports.”

“You know I’m probably going to go back, right?” John replied.

“I assumed as much. Everyone has said how much more fulfilled you are now.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

“Lestrade has agreed to let me consult for him again. I know many are against it, such as Donovan and Anderson, but his superiors have allowed it and I want to get back to some semblance of my old life.” Sherlock looked around slightly. “It will be strange not having you involved, but I suppose I will get used to it.”

“You want me to stay, don’t you?” John asked quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as he looked back at John. “I think I do better work with a partner, and I trust you. I need your help, John. I’m not sure if I can go back to working on my own again.”

“Sherlock, I have this whole other life now. I moved on because I had to. I don’t want to give it up.” John moved away from the door. “There will need to be changes in things if I stay, and there’s no guarantee I won’t go back to Doctors Without Borders.”

A look of hope crossed Sherlock’s face. “So you’re considering it?”

John nodded. “I am. But we need to figure out how things are going to work because I’m a different man now, and I’m sure you are as well. We can’t go back to the way things were, not completely.”

“Will you consider moving back to 221 Baker Street?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ll consider it, but I probably won’t. I think one thing we need is some space. I need to have a place I can go where I can do things how I want without having to have regard for you and your odd behaviors.”

“Understandable,” Sherlock said with a nod.

“I want to have time to myself. I don’t want you calling at every waking moment or keeping all of my time to yourself. I need to have a fully formed life independent of you and the cases. I need room to breathe, I suppose. And you should have it as well. The type of life you led isn’t all that healthy. You need an actual life as well.”

“I had thought much the same thing myself,” Sherlock replied. “I can agree to all this. Anything else?”

“One last thing.”

“All right.”

“We don’t keep any more secrets from each other. Not even little ones. If I’m going to rebuild my trust in you I need your word that you won’t conceal things from me. I can’t work with you again if you can’t promise me that.”

“I give you my word that I will not lie to you again,” Sherlock said.

John came over to him and extended his hand. “Then let’s try again, shall we?”

A small grin formed on Sherlock face as he grabbed John’s hand and shook it once, then twice. “Thank you, John.”

“Just make sure I don’t regret this,” John said with an answering grin of his own. “I can always leave you and go back to Africa if it all goes south.”

“I’ll endeavor to remember that,” Sherlock said as he let go of John’s hand. “So now what?”

“I was just about to start unpacking,” John said. “If you’d like to stay and help, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’d be glad to,” Sherlock said with a nod before drifting over to a box and opening it. John watched for a moment as he inspected the contents and his smile grew wider. Somehow he knew this was the right course of action. He could always go back to changing the world later. Right now, though, he had a friendship to rebuild.


End file.
